Blood was trickling down Saul’s face as he climbed out of the overturned truck. His head ricocheted off the doorframe when the vehicle went into the ditch leaving a small cut right on the hairline above his left temple. His three companions had already made their way out of the twisted mass of metal. All four of the travelers were stunned and it took them a minute to find their bearings. Saul surveyed the wreckage. The truck was mangled. It lay upside down with the windows all broken. The front right side was completely and totally crushed from when it first impacted the ground. Gasoline fumes filled the air. The smell wafted from the leaking tank. When the truck crashed it left a long gash in the ground, which extended from the site of the wreck for about thirty feet parallel to the road. One wheel was completely torn off and lay in the grass nearby. Shards of glass surrounded the whole scene, glinting in the afternoon sun. Saul looked at the violent sight in wonder. The mortal groanings of the near-dead engine were the only sounds to be heard. The silence was a stark contrast to the chaotic crashing and banging that filled the cabin as the machine tumbled off the road. It reminded Saul of the aftermath of an incredible battle. A field strewn with death and destruction statically echoing the terrible brutality that preceded and created the silence.
Lawrence was the first to move. He quickly headed around the mess to the driver’s side door and wrenched it open. He dragged the pilot’s lifeless body from the car. He held on to the man’s coat as he pulled him back to the others. The lifeless body was named Tim, Saul remembered. Tim was covered in blood. His nose was smashed flat against his face, presumably from his head flying into the steering column of the airbag-less truck. The dead man’s hair was tinted a sanguine red and matted against his skull. Must be a big gash, thought Saul.
Lawrence spoke, “The woman, the passenger, she’s dead, too. Nothing we can do for either of these poor bastards.” He stopped his dragging and dropped the body in a heap on the ground.
Lawrence began to search through Tim’s pockets, producing a handful of credits and a loaded handgun. The handgun he slipped into his belt behind his back and the credits went into his pocket. “We should get away from here,” he said, half suggesting and half commanding.
Saul's eyes settled back on the broken man lying on the ground in front of him. Saul didn't imagine this when we first set out on his journey. He imagined something completely different: a personal odyssey and he was its Odysseus. He imagined excitement and adventure, even near-death experiences, not actual mortality. Saul thought for a moment. He realized he had been dreaming of outsmarting Polyphemus the cyclopes without imagining the bloody, cavernous hole where his one eye used to be. He forgot that even the great wandering captain had lost men into the gaping maw of Charybdis, and, even more tellingly, when he returned he was alone and without crew. In that moment, looking at the dead driver's bloody face, Saul grasped how naïve he truly was. He had, consciously or unconsciously, ignored the presence of death that permeates his romanticized views of adventure.
His left hand was shaking as it reached up to where he was cut on the side of his head. A sticky warmth greeted his fingers and the minor tremors stopped. Saul left his hand there for a moment, then brought it back down in front of his face. The deep crimson stood out so perfectly against his pale ivory skin. So this is adventure? Death and blood? His gaze lingered on the ruby color staining his fingers.
The mutilated truck hadn't moved from its final resting place in the ditch. Its distorted frame sticking out of the earth like a giant ribcage in an elephant graveyard. No one had spoken for some time and the silence was all encompassing. I wonder how long that's gonna stay there? I wonder how long those bodies will stay there? No one is going to bury them, or make their funeral pyre. No one will sing their songs. Thoughts of mortality flooded his mind, drowning the immortal heroes he had once read about and loved.
Saul snapped back to reality as the engine gave out one last sputtering breath. The others had already turned to head northward, again. Saul took one last look at the bloated and crushed corpse that lay before the monument of the destroyed truck, like some sacrifice. It wasn’t pretty, or heroic, or cathartic. It was death. The way Lawrence looted the bloodied corpse. The way he took the money and the gun. It was vulgar. It wasn’t noble; it wasn’t even close. The nostalgic thoughts of mythic times he once held shattered. Saul rubbed his blood covered hands on his jeans. He shouldered his backpack and headed to catch up with his companions. As they walked the silence turned into chatter and, for everyone but Saul, things were normal again.
Lawrence was the first to move. He quickly headed around the mess to the driver’s side door and wrenched it open. He dragged the pilot’s lifeless body from the car. He held on to the man’s coat as he pulled him back to the others. The lifeless body was named Tim, Saul remembered. Tim was covered in blood. His nose was smashed flat against his face, presumably from his head flying into the steering column of the airbag-less truck. The dead man’s hair was tinted a sanguine red and matted against his skull. Must be a big gash, thought Saul.
Lawrence spoke, “The woman, the passenger, she’s dead, too. Nothing we can do for either of these poor bastards.” He stopped his dragging and dropped the body in a heap on the ground.
Lawrence began to search through Tim’s pockets, producing a handful of credits and a loaded handgun. The handgun he slipped into his belt behind his back and the credits went into his pocket. “We should get away from here,” he said, half suggesting and half commanding.
Saul's eyes settled back on the broken man lying on the ground in front of him. Saul didn't imagine this when we first set out on his journey. He imagined something completely different: a personal odyssey and he was its Odysseus. He imagined excitement and adventure, even near-death experiences, not actual mortality. Saul thought for a moment. He realized he had been dreaming of outsmarting Polyphemus the cyclopes without imagining the bloody, cavernous hole where his one eye used to be. He forgot that even the great wandering captain had lost men into the gaping maw of Charybdis, and, even more tellingly, when he returned he was alone and without crew. In that moment, looking at the dead driver's bloody face, Saul grasped how naïve he truly was. He had, consciously or unconsciously, ignored the presence of death that permeates his romanticized views of adventure.
His left hand was shaking as it reached up to where he was cut on the side of his head. A sticky warmth greeted his fingers and the minor tremors stopped. Saul left his hand there for a moment, then brought it back down in front of his face. The deep crimson stood out so perfectly against his pale ivory skin. So this is adventure? Death and blood? His gaze lingered on the ruby color staining his fingers.
The mutilated truck hadn't moved from its final resting place in the ditch. Its distorted frame sticking out of the earth like a giant ribcage in an elephant graveyard. No one had spoken for some time and the silence was all encompassing. I wonder how long that's gonna stay there? I wonder how long those bodies will stay there? No one is going to bury them, or make their funeral pyre. No one will sing their songs. Thoughts of mortality flooded his mind, drowning the immortal heroes he had once read about and loved.
Saul snapped back to reality as the engine gave out one last sputtering breath. The others had already turned to head northward, again. Saul took one last look at the bloated and crushed corpse that lay before the monument of the destroyed truck, like some sacrifice. It wasn’t pretty, or heroic, or cathartic. It was death. The way Lawrence looted the bloodied corpse. The way he took the money and the gun. It was vulgar. It wasn’t noble; it wasn’t even close. The nostalgic thoughts of mythic times he once held shattered. Saul rubbed his blood covered hands on his jeans. He shouldered his backpack and headed to catch up with his companions. As they walked the silence turned into chatter and, for everyone but Saul, things were normal again.